


sweet as cherry wine

by feathered (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Fluff, Louis is shy, M/M, harry has flowers in his hair, mentions of zayn but liam and niall don't exist lmao, they get ice cream and eat chinese food, this is literally only fluff there is no smut in this i can't believe myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:49:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2780546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/feathered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Louis can’t possibly resent a pretty boy with flowers in his hair.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet as cherry wine

**Author's Note:**

> this is the longest fic i've ever posted... 8k... amazing lmao. anyway enjoy this piece of fluff and feel free to hmu on [tumblr](http://memedirection.tumblr.com)
> 
> title from cherry wine by hozier

Louis sits behind a boy who smells like apples because there are blossoms in his hair. Frosted blush pink twined in smooth chocolate waves, delicate and silky. They remind him of late spring, early summer, trees finishing their bloom and scattering petals across the ground.

He could reach out and touch, feel velvet under the pads of fingers, and he wants to. But he doesn’t, of course, because that’s not what strangers do to strangers.

The boy twists in his seat and asks to borrow a sheet of lined paper. Louis can see, just beyond the span of his shoulders, a thick notebook resting on the silicon desktop and he thinks he probably doesn’t actually need one. He rips a piece from his own spiral anyway, because Flower Boy’s voice is languid, sleepy, and his eyes are bright and his lips are cherry-popsicle red. He gives a thank-you and turns forward once again and Louis really wants to kiss him, too.

He rests his chin in his hands and watches the flutter of arm muscles as the boy bleeds ink across paper. It doesn’t look like he’s taking notes. Louis wonders what he’s drawing.

A monotone voice from the front of the hall eventually lulls him to sleep; he dreams of chocolate mousse and confectionary roses.

~

Flower Boy is late. The door slips open and then closed at twenty past eight and he gives a bashful grin, dips his head in apology.

Flower Boy’s name is Harry, used in terse admonishment. _Harry_. Louis hums softly because Harry rhymes with _cherryberryfairy_ and all sorts of lovely things.

The petals laced in his curls are dusted with a layer of pretty snowflakes and Louis wonders where he manages to find fresh flowers in the frostbitten winter. His eyes follow Harry as he lopes toward his seat, carried by long, slender legs. His gait is slow and meandering – to match his voice, Louis thinks. A beaten leather camera bag is slung over his shoulder and splotches of ink speckle across bare forearms. He’s not wearing a jacket so Louis imagines his skin must be sizzling warm. He still wants to touch, even more now.

Harry smiles at him, slinking to his chair, all teeth and dimples carved into rosy cheeks and Louis melts. He might resent him for that, the sudden influx of dizzying sensations he’s causing, but he won’t. Louis can’t possibly resent a pretty boy with flowers in his hair.

Louis yawns and pillows his head on his arms because it’s about time for his half-eight doze. He drifts off thinking of Harry’s ruby cherry lips and wondering whether they’re as lusciously soft as his hair looks.

~

“Sleepy?”

Rumbling words collide with Louis’ eardrums and his head jerks up, surprised. Naturally, he knocks his tea over and it spills across the desk, splashing noisily onto the floor.

He feels heat rushing furiously to his cheeks, still imprinted with the fuzzy check pattern of his sweater sleeve. Harry just tips his head back and laughs prettily, a few stray petals drifting toward his shirt collar.

“You’re laughing at me.” Louis knits his eyebrows.

“No m’not, I swear.” Harry calms himself for a moment, only to erupt into giggles again. No, that’s not charming and adorable and Louis definitely does not want to pinch the apples of his cheeks, not at all. “Okay, okay, yes, I am. But s’only cause you’re cute.”

 _Cute_.

Louis pinks further.

“You’ve gone pink,” Harry observes sweetly.

And Louis goes pinker still, his head just a tiny bit fuzzy. Harry bites back a smile, casting sparkly green eyes down at the mess of tea still pooling on the desk and floor. Louis follows his gaze.

“We should probably, um…” He tips his chin at the spill.

Harry peers up through his eyelashes. “Or we could just, leave?”

Harry dimples a grin and he’s already reached the door before Louis has a chance to gather his things: a duct tape-wrapped backpack, heavy denim jacket, and his now empty travel mug. He pokes his curly head through the space, long fingers gripping a wooden frame, and he reminds Louis of a five-year-old, or an overexcited puppy, or something.

“Well, Sleepy Boy? Come on then.” And he’s gone, racing into the hallway.

It takes Louis a bit to fully catch up because Harry’s got those two-mile-long legs and Louis, well, doesn’t. Harry howls with laughter like this is the most thrilling thing he’s ever done, and Louis’ heart does something funny at that. The crimson-pink petals are flying out behind him, drifting calmly to the ugly tiled floor.

“You’re littering,” Louis teases, running up on Harry’s right side.

“No, I’m making the world prettier!” Harry shouts, all shimmering giddiness, and pulls ahead. Louis skids to halt and rests his hands on his knees, panting out breaths and watching Harry’s back as he disappears down the long corridor. He thinks there’s something fitting about the trail of flowers he’s left in his wake.

He thinks he’s completely enamored.

~

Louis is slumped in the driver’s seat, struggling to start his piece of shit car when Harry trots – actually _trots_ and really, why on Earth is that endearing? – across the lot, tapping a long finger on the glass. He’s got this wide, goofy smile stretched out to flushed cheeks and it’s windy out so his curls are blowing against them. He’s so absolutely beautiful Louis really just wants to melt into the fabric of his seat.

So he’s all melty and Harry’s all lovely and the window whirs softly as it rolls down.

“We’re getting ice cream,” is what Harry says, and he says it like it’s a sure thing. Well, Louis supposes it sort of is, since he thinks he’d probably do anything Harry wanted.

Still, “Harry, it’s freezing out.”

“Never too cold for ice cream, Louis,” he chirps brightly, making his way around to the passenger side and sliding inside. He pulls the door shut and wraps his arms around himself in an exaggerated shivering motion. Louis raises an eyebrow.

“You could try a jacket, you know,” Louis eyes Harry’s bare arms and turns the key for the – what was it, fourth? Fifth? Tenth time? “I’ve heard they’re quite good for insulation.” The car makes an awful choking sound but sputters to life nonetheless.

“And you need a new car,” Harry observes, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

Louis just looks at him, then, because _really_?

Harry chuckles, whisper-soft, like an exhale, and a dimple forms at the corner of his _pinkpink_ lips. Louis can’t decide if he wants to poke it, or kiss it, or lick it. Probably all three.

“Well, you do,” Harry shrugs, and it takes Louis a second to realize that he’s still going on about the sorry state of his car. He’s preoccupied with the way Harry’s thin shoulders rise and fall, delicate knobs of bone nudging at cotton shirtsleeves.

Louis _still_ hasn’t said anything, and he might be a bit embarrassed by that if Harry seemed to mind at all, which he, well, doesn’t. He chatters on like a two-way conversation actually exists, and Louis thinks he’d be the type that would sit and talk to a cardboard cutout for upwards of an hour. It’s weirdly sweet.

“And anyway, I don’t need a jacket. Here, feel.”

Harry presses the back of his hand against Louis’ neck and it’s like he’s just laid down on a hearth, smooth and so _so_ warm.

He almost backs his car straight into another one.

Louis slams on the brakes and the car jerks to a halt, both of them pitching forward against their seatbelts and Harry’s hand falling gently away.

Louis’ heart is stuttering in his chest but Harry just laughs lightly.

“Do I make you nervous?” The left corner of his mouth quirks up slightly and Louis thinks he’s teasing – sort of.

“No.” _Yes_. “Just surprised me, s’all.”

“F’you say so,” Harry says in a sleepy drawl that fills the car like smoke and curls up next to Louis’ eardrum and it’s such a lovely sound that Louis feels his lungs constricting.

He manages to pull the car from the lot without any more incident, and Harry starts rifling through the glove compartment, tossing aside crinkled candy wrappers and half-eaten bags of crisps with the slightest furrow in his brow. Louis thinks he should be angry that Harry is throwing trash into the backseat but he can’t exactly justify it when his car always smells like a mix of sausage pizza and chicken nuggets. He also can’t justify it because it’s Harry.

“Is that really necessary?” Louis asks, more as a pleasantry than anything else, because he doesn’t actually mind.

“It is.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Harry examines a Snickers wrapper that must be at least three weeks old, “you can find out a lot about people by looking at the sorts of things they throw away.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It actually does, though. See,” Harry holds the wrapper out to Louis like it’s supposed to mean something to him, “just from this wrapper, I know you don’t like peanuts.”

Louis makes a face and Harry giggles softly and Louis almost drives straight into a telephone pole.

“I know you don’t like peanuts,” he continues, “because you picked out all the peanuts.”

He tips the wrapper upside down and several slightly rotted peanuts tumble out into his open palm.

 _Oh_.

“Oh,” Louis lets out a breath and turns down a quiet street that’s intermittently dotted with little shops. He thinks there might be an ice cream parlor mixed in between the faded storefronts advertising half-price antiques. He also thinks it’s ridiculous that they’re getting ice cream at all, but. It’s Harry.

Harry, whose cheeks are still flushed vermillion from the cold, hair tousled by wind-chill, so achingly lovely. He’s got a stack of paper scraps clutched between ink-stained fingers – receipts, because Louis stuffs them in the glove compartment and forgets. Harry smoothes one out and peers at it and Louis realizes he’s been holding his breath. He exhales softly and waits for Harry to speak, waits for him to figure something else out. There’s something nice about the way Harry’s doing this, uncovering the least significant snippets of Louis’ life and piecing them together until they say something more about who he is. It’s connective, he thinks.

“You write.”

Louis looks over at Harry and his eyes are all glittery from the filtered sunlight streaming through the windshield and he has to look away again or he might drive straight off the road.

“Tell me how you know,” Louis says because Harry’s voice is deep and smooth and he never wants it to stop.

Harry smirks and stuffs the receipts back into the glove compartment. “You buy a lot of journals. The nice kind. Moleskine. Writer’s journals.”

Harry’s right and he knows. He stares at the road ahead and doesn’t say anything more.

Louis looks at him. “You’re not gonna ask?”

“Ask what?” And _god_ , his eyes are just so _green_ , Louis bets he could cut the irises out and sell them for a better price than any pure emerald that’s ever existed. Except he wants Harry to like him and well, he’s pretty sure removing his eyes would be counterproductive.

Harry’s still gazing at him expectantly and he realizes he’s forgotten to answer.

“I write, yeah. You don’t want to know what I write about? That’s usually the first thing people ask.”

Harry shakes his head absently and he’s still got those tiny flowers in his hair and a teardrop-shaped petal drifts slowly down, coming to a gentle rest on the edge of the leather seat. He doesn’t seem to notice it and Louis hopes he never does because it’s embarrassing but he’d really like to take that petal home and press it into a book or something. He wants to keep a little piece of Harry, just in case this strange and sudden friendship that’s developed is fleeting. (He really hopes it won’t be.)

“If you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

He’s not prying, and it’s refreshing. So Louis tells him.

“I write about people, that I like, see…I don’t know, people that look like they might have an interesting backstory. It’s sort of…observational writing, I guess? I’m not much good.” _I write about you. I write about you and your dumb hair with your dumb flowers and the ink on your arms and your lack of outerwear and your voice feels like dark chocolate and your lips look like cherries except not maraschino cherries, the real kind, with pits that you have to spit out and stems you can tie with your tongue._

Harry nods. “I’m sure you’re brilliant.”

Louis’ heart swells at the compliment and Harry’s got his arm resting on the console between them, long fingers dangling, and it would be _so_ easy for Louis to just entwine his own, feel the warmth of Harry’s palm against his. He doesn’t, of course.

“Ever write about me?” Harry’s fingers twitch like can feel Louis thinking about them.

It’s a genuine question, Louis can tell, he’s not trying to embarrass him. But there’s heat creeping up his cheekbones anyway and Harry can see so there’s really no point in lying.

“Yes,” Louis admits quietly, then grins. “I mean, you’ve got flowers in your hair. If that doesn’t say ‘interesting backstory’ then I don’t know what does.”

Harry laughs and Louis thinks he really needs to stop doing that – it’s dangerous to distract the driver, after all. “Touché. But that’s a backstory that requires ice cream to tell.”

As if on cue, Harry points out a tiny storefront that’s wedged between a resale shop and what looks to be a Laundromat. Louis has to chuckle, at that – he didn’t think Laundromats existed anymore. But apparently they do because there it is, towering over the shop where he and Harry are getting ice cream in the middle of January. Ice cream. With Harry. Louis inhales deeply because he can’t quite believe this sort of wonderful thing is happening right now.

After one particularly botched parallel park job – to be fair, it would’ve been easier if Harry hadn’t been _giggling_ the whole time – they’re standing just outside a little ice cream parlor called “Ruthie’s Sweet Shoppe.” Louis thinks the extra letters are a bit pretentious but Harry seems pleased so he doesn’t say anything. The place doesn’t have much by the way of curb appeal – the windows are dingy and the striped awning suspended above their heads is faded and sagging in spots – but a sign on the window advertises “Best Hand-scooped in the Country!” so who are they to argue, really.

There’s a cluster of jingle bells suspended above the doorframe but they seem to have long since lost their jingle so they just swing back and forth sadly when he and Harry push through the door. It’s dark inside, dusty like the windows, and the tabletops match the awning. Harry smiles like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen.

They make their way to the counter and are served by a balding man whose gut is straining against the white suspenders clipped to his trousers.

“M’guessing that’s not Ruthie,” Harry whispers while the man scoops their ice cream into waffle cones. (Harry gets the cherry-flavored kind, of _course_ he does. He giggles when Louis picks rainbow sorbet and asks for extra sprinkles.) His breath is warm and it tickles Louis’ skin and he laughs so he doesn’t choke.

They pay for their cones and Harry tosses a few coins into the glass jar on the counter even though the man barely did more than grunt at them. Said man retreats through a small door that presumably leads to a storage room or a kitchen and he and Harry are left alone.

They sit at a hightop in the back corner, cracked upholstery on rickety barstools crinkling under their weight. Harry eats his ice cream with a spoon, tongue first, and Louis would ask why he even bothered with the cone in the first place, but. It’s Harry. (Louis is beginning to think there must be some reason to the strange things that he does.) The ice cream stains his lips a beautiful bright red and Louis wants to push Harry off that stool, kiss him until he can’t breathe. He doesn’t, of course. Harry talks and he stares at his rainbow sprinkles like they’re something more than what they actually are.

Harry doesn’t tell his backstory, not then, but he does tell how he likes to paint. Likes to sketch. Likes to photograph. His subjects are mostly people, like Louis’, only captured in a different medium.

Louis would say something about puzzle pieces if that weren’t embarrassingly cliché.

Harry eats as slowly as he talks, it seems, because Louis’ already devoured his ice cream, cone and all, before Harry’s even made a significant dent. Eventually Harry’s ice cream all but melts, turning a milky pink inside the cone, and he tilts his head back, lifting it to his lips like he’s taking a shot. Louis is taken aback by the lovely curve of his neck, the faint tracheal ridges nudging against china doll skin. He wants to suck bruises there. His mouth goes a little dry.

Harry brings his eyes back to Louis’ and grins, turning the cone upside down and placing it atop his curls like a tiny edible dunce cap.

“Your hair’s gonna get sticky.” Louis can’t help but smile because he’s just so dumb and endearing and pretty. (His heart is still fluttering against his ribcage though; it can’t seem to stop doing that when Harry’s around.)

Harry shrugs like he doesn’t care and Louis thinks that he probably really doesn’t. It makes sense, in a weird way – he already puts flowers in his hair, what’s a little melted ice cream?

The cone is still balanced on top of Harry’s head and Louis thinks that’s pretty impressive but mostly he just thinks Harry looks impossibly cute so he digs his phone out of his back pocket and taps the camera app. When he holds up the phone Harry’s there with big eyes and a dorky grin and two thumbs up and Louis snaps the picture that he’ll probably keep until his phone physically disintegrates. Or he dies. Whichever comes first.

Harry plucks the cone from his head and takes a bite from the bottom end. He makes sure to finish chewing before he speaks.

“Make that my contact picture.”

Louis is in the middle of thinking that he’d rather make it his background when he realizes that he actually doesn’t have Harry’s number. He also realizes that Harry is probably very much aware of that. Louis smirks a little. Well-played.

“See, that’d be loads easier if I actually had a contact to put it with. Which, as you can probably guess, I don’t.”

Harry’s grin cracks his entire face when he says, “We’d better fix that then.”

They exchange phones and the tips of their fingers brush and Louis almost pisses himself. He’s immeasurably glad he doesn’t.

Harry’s just pocketed his phone when the bald man emerges from his cave only to grunt at them to leave so he can close the shop. Louis is confused because he swears it’s only been twenty minutes but the sky is darkened when he looks out the window and he thinks Harry can make time stop.

Harry shoots the man a cheery smile as they make their way to the door, popping the last bit of cone into his mouth. Louis unlocks his car and Harry slides rather gracelessly into the passenger side, all gangle and awkward limbs, and Louis likens him to a noodle, or a piece of wheat. Harry laughs and Louis thinks it’s quite possibly the most beautiful sound anyone has ever made.

Harry gives unnecessarily detailed directions to his flat and fiddles with the radio the entire way there. They pull up to a tall brick building ten minutes later and Louis wonders if maybe he should walk Harry to his door. He ultimately decides against it because that’s a very date-y thing and Louis isn’t really sure what this was. So he stays put while Harry climbs out of the car just as awkwardly as he got in. He blows a cheeky kiss before he leaves and Louis feels like it’s been branded into his skin. He blushes all the way home.

He’s just tucked himself into bed when his phone buzzes with a new message from **Harry Styles**. It’s a banana emoji. Louis is so charmed by his strangeness that he can’t breathe right. He sends back the tongue-sticking-out emoji and smiles to sleep.

He dreams about cherry ice cream and tall cherry-lipped boys.

~

The next time Louis runs into Harry, he’s talking to a plant.

Louis’ already ten minutes late for a lecture but there’s Harry, crouched on the ground, long legs impossibly folded beneath him, hovering over what looks to be a giant fern. It’s the only one that isn’t snow-covered, and Louis wonders if that’s because Harry shook it off. The brisk wind carries the sound of his deep molasses voice and Louis can hear him muttering words that barely sound like English.

He’s never found someone’s eccentricities this endearing before. His heart flops in his chest like a dying fish.

There are no flowers in Harry’s hair today, Louis notices; instead, his curls are pulled back into a loose bun that only serves to accentuate the sharp line of his jaw. Louis swallows hard. (He sort of really wants to sit on his face.)

“He’s quite the talker, isn’t he?” Louis’ voice sounds too loud, amidst the snow and quiet ferns and other various shrubbery. He winces slightly.

Harry turns his head at the sound and smiles all the way up to his hairline. “More of a listener, really.”

“I was talking to the fern.”

“ _Heyyyy_ ,” Harry mock-whines, reaching out to swat at one of Louis’ ankles playfully. He’s got his skinny jeans rolled up at the bottoms despite the cold – because he’s a _knob_ , really - so there’s bare skin there and he shivers as Harry’s fingers brush across it. Harry notices. Of _course_ he does.

“Cold?” He looks at Louis quizzically.

Louis balls his hands up inside the sleeves of his sweater. “A bit. It’s… breezy, and all that.” Which he supposes is somewhat of an understatement, since there’s snow on the ground and his breath fogs in front of his face.

“And all that,” Harry repeats like there’s some deeper meaning to it. Maybe there is. Louis doesn’t know but he really wishes Harry would stop picking up on things. It’s making him feel like his head is made of glass, all of his thoughts laid out bare and on full display.

“I, uh…” Louis glances down at his wrist but realizes a beat too late that he’s not actually wearing a watch and well, now he just looks dumb. He doesn’t blush at his own stupidity though, which he supposes is progress, of sorts anyway. “I’m late for a lecture, actually, so I’ll, um, leave you to your…” He’s not really sure what to call it, actually. He settles on gesturing between Harry and his fern friend.

“Wait,” Harry straightens himself to his full height and he’s not that much taller than Louis, not really, but Louis suddenly feels very small in comparison. He’s looking at Louis and chewing on his bottom lip like he’s nervous and Louis’ heart picks up its pace. When Harry starts to speak, it’s considerably quicker than usual and punctuated entirely with question marks.

“This might be a weird thing to ask, but um… I was wondering… I mean, I’d sort of like to sketch you? Or paint you, maybe? I’m not sure which, I haven’t decided on that yet but like… usually I can just do it from memory but you’ve got this face that’s just… I want to make it good? Like detailed? And it would be a lot easier if you were…um… sitting in front of me? So yeah I guess I’m asking… would you want to do that? Maybe?” Harry blushes furiously as he finishes and he must notice Louis is staring at him sort of slack-jawed because he quickly adds, “You can say no… if that’s too weird.”

Harry wants to draw him. _Harry wants to draw him_. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? Louis isn’t really sure but he’s not about to decline the offer.

“I- yeah, that’d be- I’d like that.”

Harry’s resulting smile is so wide that Louis is concerned his face might split. He clasps his hands together and his knuckles are tinted blue-gray from the frigid air and Louis wonders if he’s trying to give himself frostbite. He wants to kiss them warm.

He’s too busy thinking about how it might feel to mold his lips to the soft skin stretching over those joints that he almost doesn’t realize Harry’s begun speaking again. He catches him mid-sentence.

“…don’t get off work ‘til 9, but you can come to my place after if you’d like – I can pick up some takeaway, maybe, if you want? Unless you’re busy tonight, of course, and some other time might work better…”

“No, Harry, tonight’s perfect,” Louis cuts him off with a small smile. Harry smiles back at him and his cheeks are all rosy-flushed from the cold and Louis feels like there are hummingbirds in his stomach.

Harry fiddles with a loose piece of hair that hangs behind his ear and he’s still smiling. “Do you remember where my flat is?”

And, well, Louis isn’t about to admit that he has the address committed to memory, so he hands Harry his phone and watches him type the familiar digits into a note document. He hands the phone back and leans down to gather his beaten leather messenger bag from the ground, brushing snow from it as he stands. There’s something about the way Harry moves – an awkward sort of graceful – that’s strangely captivating and Louis thinks he’d like to just sit and watch him for a long time. Forever, maybe. He wishes he could stop being so damn sappy.

“I’ll see you later, Louis,” Harry says, the languid pace of his voice returning. He gives Louis another dimpled grin and lopes off in the opposite direction.

Louis glances down at his non-existent watch again before checking the time on his phone. He’s managed to miss his entire lecture but he decides he definitely doesn’t care.

~

It’s five minutes to nine and Louis is pacing.

Harry had texted a few hours earlier telling him to come by around nine-thirty, and after Google Maps confirmed that Harry’s flat was a 10-minute drive from his own, Louis had made the executive decision to leave at 9:25 on the dot. He figured an arrival time of 9:35 would be a socially acceptable degree of lateness.

In the hours since then, he’s showered, brushed his teeth, nervously devoured an entire bag of Cheetos, brushed his teeth again (and then a third time, for good measure), changed clothes twice before settling on dark skinny jeans and a loose cream-colored sweater, and it’s _still_ barely nine o’ clock. He’s got twenty-five minutes left and it feels like time is dragging through molasses and he’s about three seconds shy of ripping his hair from the roots. So he’s resorted to doing laps around the couch in an attempt to both calm himself and pass time, all the while debating whether or not he should bring Harry a pie or something.

“Lou, it’s not a housewarming,” Zayn chimes in without lifting his head from where it’s bent over the elaborate network of doodles forming in the margins of his art history textbook. Louis lets out an exasperated sigh. Apparently his inner monologue hadn’t been so inner after all.

Louis stops pacing and faces the kitchen where Zayn has got his papers splayed across their small folding table. “So I’m just supposed to show up with nothing?”

“Um, yes?” Zayn lifts his head then, and his expression says _are you stupid?_

“Piss off, Z, you know I’m no good at this stuff,” Louis sighs heavily and resumes pacing.

“I’m not good at it either, but I know enough not to show up at a mate’s place with a fucking _pie_ ,” Zayn chuckles and it just figures he would be amused by all this.

And he shouldn’t be, really. If anything he should be sympathetic, because he’s just as shy as Louis is. Except, Zayn is lucky enough to be the sort of shy that’s mysterious and alluring, whereas Louis is stuck being the sort that’s bumbling and just generally awkward. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being bitter over it.

“But honestly, Lou,” Zayn continues, his voice soft and comforting, “he’s asking you to be his muse, essentially – that’s like, massive. I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

Louis runs his fingers through his hair and sighs because Zayn is right. Zayn is always right.

“Fuck you,” he says suddenly, leaning against the back of the couch.

Zayn looks up. “For what?”

“For always being right.”

Zayn smirks and lobs a balled up sheet of paper at Louis’ head. It misses and lands on one of the couch cushions. Louis chuckles – Zayn may always be right but he still has poor aim.

~

Louis arrives at Harry’s door at precisely 9:35 and he gives himself a quick pat on the back for his expert planning. He also sends a mental “fuck you” to the heating system in his piece of shit car for deciding to throw in the towel on what might very well be the coldest day of the year. Now he’s shaking like a leaf and that’s really just not attractive.

He lifts his hand to knock but his knuckles haven’t even made contact before Harry is pulling the door open. He’s got a box of frosted cereal in his right hand and a dusting of sugar across his lips. Louis blinks. He wants to stumble forward and kiss him until there’s none left.

He sort of forgets that he’s quite literally freezing his arse off until suddenly Harry exclaims with wide eyes, “God Lou, you’re shivering!” and oh, right, he’s still shaking. And then Harry’s pulling him inside and uncharacteristically speed-talking.

“…I could make you some tea if you want? To warm you up? I’ve got a few kinds…” Harry trails off and Louis just looks at him. He’s got on a pair of soft-looking black pants and a loose white long-sleeved shirt and his hair is wild around his face and Louis thinks he’d much rather just nuzzle into his skin. He also thinks that would probably be crossing some sort of line, so.

“Tea would be great, Harry. Yorkshire, if you have it?”

Harry’s eyes light up. “Oh! Is that your favorite, then? I’ve just bought some...” He scurries off then, sock feet slipping a bit on the hardwood floor. His arms flail every time he almost loses balance and Louis feels so affectionate he thinks he might burst.  

Louis slips off his Vans and nudges them so that they’re lined up next to the worn brown boots Harry always wears. He laughs a little at how tiny his shoes look in comparison.

Harry's flat is very small, and the plant to furniture ratio is noticeably skewed. There's a mattress tucked into the far corner, piled with [worn] blankets and stacks of colorful pillows, flanked by potted foliage on each end. An aged-looking trunk sits against the adjacent wall, underneath the single window, serving as a sort of makeshift nightstand, Louis guesses. There's a fern sitting on top of it and a row of small cactus-type plants lining the windowsill. Of course.

All in all, Louis counts exactly four pieces of furniture - including the lone bar stool sitting under a thick slab of wood that juts from the wall in the tiny kitchen where Harry is currently fiddling with a tea kettle and a large desk that's strewn with art supplies - and more than twenty various plants. Somehow he's not surprised.

The walls though, the walls are something else entirely. The exposed brick is covered in layer of chipping white paint, and Harry's painted or sketched over every available surface. Most of it's done on scraps of unevenly cut canvas, taped to brick at the corners, but in some places he's applied strokes of color directly to the wall. Strands of twinkle lights are suspended from the juncture where wall meets ceiling, illuminating everything below in soft-hued light. It's sort of like a private gallery, Louis thinks. It's so beautiful and so utterly _Harry_ that he finds himself shivering again, despite the warm room and the promise of a hot mug of tea.

Harry returns with said tea, then, and Louis can't help but be disappointed when their fingers don't brush as he hands him the mug. He takes a small sip and frowns. Harry notices.

"Something wrong with the tea?" Harry looks and sounds genuinely concerned.

"No- not at all, it's perfect Harry, thank you. It's just, um..." _I wanted to feel your fingertips because your skin is soft and warm and I want to touch you all the time..._ "You said you got takeaway?"

Harry seems only mildly confused by the subject change, gesturing to the collection of cardboard cartons sitting on the makeshift breakfast counter. "I hope you like Chinese."

"You'd better have egg rolls or I'm turning around and leaving."

"I do, but I wasn't planning on letting you leave anyway, so..." Harry leaves the sentence unended, the corner of his lips curving upwards slightly, and Louis feels like he's been punched square in the chest.

"Brilliant," he replies as his heart attempt to crack his ribs.

They gather up the cartons, along with some paper-towel napkins and the little packets of chopsticks, and Harry leads them to the mattress. Louis tries not the think too much of that - it is the only real [seating arrangement] in Harry's flat. They lean against the wall, thighs just barely touching, draped in a thick quilt that's big enough to cover both of their bodies, trapping warmth underneath. A giddy smile threatens to creep its way onto Louis' face because when Harry laughs his entire leg bounces up and down, brushing against his own, sending shockwaves of electricity through the rest of him.

There's enough food to feed a family of four and Louis wonders if Harry intends for them to eat it all and concludes that yeah, he probably does.

"This is prime," Louis manages to say around a mouthful of egg roll. There's none left then, so he reaches for a carton of lo Mein. "Where'd you get it?"

"There's this hole-in-the-wall place down the block," Harry answers, then opts for fried rice. "It may or may not be completely sanitary, so you've been warned."

Louis cocks his head as he ponders for a second, eventually shrugging wordlessly and picking up a greasy noodle with his fingers. He tips his head back and lets it dangle above his open mouth before closing his lips around one end and sucking it down with an over exaggerated slurp. In his peripheral vision he can see Harry's cheeks flush a deep pink and he smirks a little, satisfied with himself.

They eat until they're full and their hands are sticky with the grease seeping through flimsy cardboard and then they eat some more. Harry makes fun of him for having to use a fork while his large but strangely nimble hands maneuver the chopsticks deftly. Louis mocks anger, flicking bits of rice into Harry's hair. He retaliates, dipping the tips of his fingers into the little tub of gravy balanced on his knees and splashes of sauce paint Louis' cheeks.

He wipes it off with his index finger and reaches for the pile of wrinkled napkins resting on the mattress in front of them when he feels Harry's hand close around his wrist. Louis just stares at him and he stares back and his eyes are so strikingly green even in the darkened room and Louis wonders what he's doing and - _oh_. Harry closes his mouth around his finger, slowly licking it clean and Louis tries to ignore the feel of his tongue as it swirls across skin, all warm and rough yet soft and velvety smooth, but he _can't_. Especially not when Harry peers up at him, emerald peeking through inky lashes. Louis' breath hitches and he makes a little noise in the back of his throat and slaps his free hand over his face, moderately embarrassed. Harry doesn't seem fazed though, sliding his mouth lazily off Louis' finger and returning to his food with a faint grin. Louis can't quite move for a second, positively stunned. He sort of feels like he's falling into a bottomless chasm where everything is Harry and everything aches but in the best possible way.

Eventually the cartons are all empty, save for a few rogue noodles and bits of rice plastered to the sides. Harry gets up to trash the remains and Louis yawns, pleasantly full and a lot sleepy. His eyelids droop as Harry returns to the mattress.

"Aw, sleepy Lou," he says lightly, tossing himself back down next to Louis. His hair is rumpled and his shirt collar is stretched to the side and Louis thinks maybe he wants to grab him and kiss his face off. No, he definitely wants to do that. He wants to do that and then some. He bites his lip instead.

Without much by way of preamble, Harry's yawning too and scooting himself over so that he's settled against Louis' side, head laying softly on his chest. Louis thinks his lungs are in danger of losing their functionality entirely.

"You're cuddly," Harry mumbles, nuzzling his cheek against the soft knit of Louis' sweater. He presses a soft kiss to the spot right over Louis' heart. It's feather-light, just the faintest brush of lips, but it still burns a gaping hole straight through layers of knit, cotton, flesh, muscle - right to the rapid thrumming in his ribcage.

Then everything's spinning out of focus, a mess of blurry colors and shapes morphing into surrealism and it's like _The Persistence of Memory_. All the clocks are melting and nothing's real or tangible except Harry, pressed flush against him with the quilt trapping their heat. His body is so soft and warm all curled up around him and he smells like peppermints and fried noodles but somehow that's not a terrible combination and Louis wants to touch him, so he does.

He winds his arm around Harry and it slots perfectly in the little dip at his waist, and it might be an accident that thin cotton gets rucked up in the process and the tips of his fingers ghost across skin like velvet, hot to the touch. He sucks in a sharp breath then, because the sensation of skin on skin, even to such a chaste degree as this, is overwhelming. He marvels at how small his hand looks splayed out over Harry's back, fingers sliding over smooth, subtle dips between each bump of the spine.

Harry hums contentedly and Louis feels the sound vibrate against his sternum.

Gradually, Harry's breathing steadies until it's just a rhythmic inhale-exhale, flowing seamlessly with little huffs of warm air. He's kind of daintily snoring too, which Louis usually can't stand but he likes it on Harry, somehow. He thinks he'd probably like anything Harry did.

Louis aligns his breaths with Harry's until their chests are rising and falling in tandem. For the briefest of moments, he thinks about how utterly right this all feels, and then his eyelids are drooping and slipping closed.

~

The first thing Louis notices when he wakes up is Harry's heartbeat drumming against his spine. He's got Louis pulled tightly to him - Louis can feel the heat emanating from his body, soft exhales tickling the back of his neck. He still smells like peppermint.

The second thing Louis notices is that his chest is quite bare, sweater lying in a crumpled heap on the floor next to the mattress. He's not really surprised - he gets hot when he sleeps, which usually results in the unconscious shedding of clothes - but now he's acutely aware of how Harry's hand feels splayed across his lower abdomen, hot and rough on against naked skin. His entire body prickles and his jeans - which he slept in, apparently - start to tighten slightly. Louis immediately tries to picture some decidedly un-sexy things (naked mole rats? old men in speedoes?), because if Harry were to wake up and find him hard, well, he's not exactly sure how that scenario would play out. The last thing he wants to do is embarrass himself.

The third thing Louis notices is that Harry never sketched him.

“Harry,” Louis says, trying out his voice. It’s a bit croaky from disuse but it sounds well enough. Harry snorts quietly in response but Louis can tell he’s still asleep so he starts to twist around. It’s a little difficult – Harry’s arms a vise-like grip around his middle – but he manages to maneuver himself so that he’s facing the boy next to him. And.

Harry is really beautiful.

It’s far from the first time that he’s thought this, but seeing Harry asleep is just – it redefines the word, really. His hair is splayed out in soft curls against his cheeks, which are flushed from spending the night pressed between the pillow and the back of Louis’ neck. His mouth is slightly slack, letting out little puffs of air, and Louis can see his eyes moving beneath pale lids, like he’s dreaming. It’s like sleep has softened Harry’s edges, turning him into a watercolor painting and Louis wants to trace the lines that aren’t visible, feel where they blend into skin. He thinks he’ll definitely write about this later. 

It’s probably a crime to rouse something so lovely, but Louis is nothing if not terribly impatient. He pokes Harry in the chest until his eyes flutter open.

“Hi,” Louis whispers because he doesn’t know what else to say, really. He feels himself blush, then, because Harry’s face is _so close_ and his lips are _redredred…_

“Hi,” Harry repeats, breaking his reverie. His voice is rough like raw sugar, his hands warm against Louis’ bare skin, and Louis is pretty sure it’s not physiologically possible for humans to melt but he’s also pretty sure he’s starting to melt anyway.

“You never drew me,” Louis blurts, trying to ignore Harry’s fingers, which have begun to trace languid patterns across his lower back.

Harry giggles quietly, looking down briefly before bringing his gaze back to meet Louis’. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Louis furrows his eyebrows slightly. Harry continues.

“That may have been a bit of a ruse… to get you over here, I mean.”

Harry must notice how Louis’ face falls slightly, because he immediately amends his statement. “I still want to sketch you… so much… I promise… I just – I really wanted to spend more time with you but…” he smiles and his dimples are colored rosy from the light flush on his cheeks, “…but I was too nervous to ask you out on a date.”

_A date._

Louis feels hot all over, his heart like butterfly wings against his ribcage. Harry’s hands are still pressed into the dip at his lower back and their legs are tangled underneath the quilt and _Harry wanted to ask him out on a date._ Pale sunlight streams through the dirty window panes, illuminating everything in a soft glow that makes the moment all the more dreamlike. Harry looks breathtaking in this light and his lips are inches from Louis’ face, warm exhales against his cheek, so Louis bridges the gap.

Harry’s lips are pillowy and smooth, just as he imagined they’d be, and Harry kisses him back slowly, like he can’t quite believe this is real. Louis can’t either. He sighs when Harry swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, kissing him deeper, fingers dancing along the curve of Louis’ hip. He tastes faintly like morning breath and fried rice and it shouldn’t be intoxicating but somehow it is. Everything about Harry is intoxicating and Louis’ dizzy with it.

His hands find their way into Harry’s soft mop of hair and he tugs experimentally. This makes Harry whine softly into Louis’ mouth and pull his body impossibly closer, deftly shucking his t-shirt so that their bare chests are pressed together. Louis would be surprised at just how deft a movement it was, considering Harry’s generally bumbling demeanor, but he’s overwhelmed by the heat of Harry’s skin against his.

They don’t do more than kiss, not then, but Louis doesn’t really mind. The languid pace is nice – it seems fitting for Harry, with his slow voice, slow gait, slow lips. It’ll be better this way, Louis thinks, like savoring a slice of pie, not allowing the taste to fade.

“I’m like pie?” Harry mumbles, pulling away slightly. His lips are swollen and pink and his eyes are sparkling in the most wonderfully cliché way.

Louis feels his cheeks heat up. He really needs to work on keeping his internal monologues, well, _internal_.

“I mean… I like pie,” he murmurs, “and, um… I like you, so.”

Harry giggles and it reminds him of jingle bells at Christmas. “Well I like you more than pie,” he says, kissing Louis’ forehead lightly. He lowers his voice to just about a whisper and continues, “And I _really_ like pie.”

~

Four hours later and they’re still cuddled up underneath the worn quilt, Harry’s laptop warming their knees. It’s begun snowing outside, Louis can see the flakes crystallizing on the window panes, and he’s folded into Harry’s side, long fingers dragging idly through his hair. He’s wearing Harry’s clothes too, a pair of soft gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt that’s practically threadbare. He’s quite literally swimming in them, the t-shirt hanging off his torso and the pant hems pooling at his feet, but they’re warm and they feel nice against his skin and – most of all, really – they smell like Harry. Louis thinks this all feels a lot like home. (He also think he really ought to stop thinking in clichés.)

Five hours later and Harry pauses an episode of American Horror Story, tilting his head down at Louis.

“Hey,” he says quietly, extending a finger to tap Louis on the tip of his nose. Louis reflexively scrunches his face in a way that he thinks probably looks entirely unattractive, but hopes Harry thinks looks at least a little bit cute.

“I know we haven’t known each other long, but… um…” Harry falters slightly and his voice has taken on the nervous tone that Louis has heard only once before. He holds his breath when Harry goes on. “…I was hoping maybe you’d want to be my boyfriend? If that’s alright? You can say no… I mean, I’d understand…”

Louis leans up, kisses him long and hard. He can feel himself smiling the whole time.

When he finally pulls away, Harry is smiling too. “Is that a yes?”

Louis nods, then holds up two fingers. “On two conditions…” he says, going for mischievous and coy but knowing he’s smiling too widely and his cheeks are too bright to completely pull it off. “One, you promise to draw me…”

“I plan to dedicate that entire wall to your face,” Harry makes a sweeping gesture at the blank canvas adjacent to the mattress.

“…and two, you tell me about the flowers in your hair. I was promised an interesting backstory, if you remember.”

Harry grins sheepishly. “Well, I may have exaggerated that part, if I’m honest. I just like them, is all. Nothing particularly interesting.”

“Harry Styles, I must say I am sorely disappointed.” Louis shakes his head in mock displeasure.

“No, you’re not,” Harry teases, poking his shoulder and leaving a small indent in the thin cotton.

Louis rolls his eyes, but still. He can’t possibly resent a pretty boy with flowers in his hair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
